


Down On His Luck

by Kichi (sentanixiv)



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Injury, But no one believes him, Canon-Typical Violence, Hanging/Lynching, Hurt/Comfort, John has no luck, M/M, Medium Honor Outlaws, Minor Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Strangulation, Train derailment, c.1892, eventually, morston, no one we know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:55:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28890198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sentanixiv/pseuds/Kichi
Summary: There are plenty that'd call John Marston a lucky bastard, but after a train robbery goes to hell on his watch, he ain't one of them. Afterwards, his luck keeps getting worse and worse and of course Arthur goddamn Morgan's the one convinced that he ain't as unlucky as he feels.-John stares at it and that sour twist is back in his gut. His mouth feels dry, bitter, and he fumbles at the bills to peel off his third. “Don’t want it,” he mutters as he tosses the rest to the ground angrily.There’s a shrug and the quick shift of his gaze in the reflection, catching sight of John’s angry slouch. “Then go ‘n give it to the nuns in town,” is the reply, like Arthur expected him to reject it. Like Arthur knows how he’s feeling, that he’s let them all down and instead all they’re doing is holding him up and none of them are brave enough to confront him.Hell, he ain’t even brave enough to confront it himself.John fucking hates it, feels it boiling under his skin at being treated like some glass treasure when he damn deserves to be shattered.
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 22
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Working title: Everything karmically fucks John before Arthur gets to.
> 
> Pre-canon, c.1892; six parts total.

Northbound. Easterly. Southern. Westward.

Four townships, named for the cardinal directions they lie in, saved from obscurity by the terminus of four separate and privately owned train lines, one per town. The land stretched between them has an opportunistic reputation, filled with denizens that leech profits from the rails, running cargo and security from one station to the next.

Most folk call it the Cardinal Crossroads, a confluence of commerce riddled with stockyards, storage yards, and a hub of overland transport. Dutch uses the term parasitic to describe it, while Hosea prefers symbiotic; both of them fancy words mean there is plenty of give to take for those with an eye to taking it.

The precise amount of ‘give’ available for their taking fluctuates from day-to-day and they’ve spent the better part of a month casing the angles to frame the job. It turns out four-fold and one of the biggest that their small gang’s yet taken on, requiring coordination and separation far beyond lookouts and point persons.

Hosea challenges Northbound with Bessie, the married couple easily donning the infatuated lovers personae. They’ll spin yarns and fancies before the bank manager, a known romantic, to gain access to ‘dear old mama’s’ lockbox. Therein is an heirloom ring, diamond-studded, that’s been in the family for generations and oh how _romantic_ it will be to propose to Bessie with it. And then walk out of town with it, none the wiser that they’ve no real claim to ownership.

Susan Grimshaw leads the show in Easterly. She’ll put to the test Dutch’s confidence in her ability to walk into a saloon enriched by the monies of business tycoons come ‘round to discuss investments and then emerge with the riches of all within. There were no takers on the bet that she might fail, her ironclad manner and double-barrelled shotgun two factors that all but guarantee success. Dutch allows her the rare spotlight this time around, his role spent waiting, mounted, in the alley for her emergence; should ill befall her, he is there to clear the route.

Southern, with its larger population, boasts a sheriff and full fleet of deputies, making it the township with the strongest presence of law. Arthur heads there alone to deal with it, the plan for dynamite and a few jail cells blown open to serve distraction. The explosion'll be loud enough to be heard in each of the towns and will trigger chaos, freeing inmates that none of them know ‘bout except for their value in distracting the law by running amuck. And if he happens to hit the gunsmith on the way out, stealing a fine Springfield ordered in for the sheriff and richly finished, plus cleans out the register of its cash? All the better.

That leaves Westward, the newest town and marked with the largest payload, that of the payroll train rolled in with season’s end bonuses for the supervisors running hard those workers extending the line out west. The mark requires fast riders, sharp shooting, and the degree of suicidal invincibility that youth bestows upon the young. That means John, at nineteen, leads the team of three and it doubles as his first-time running part of a job without Arthur or Dutch there to keep it steady.

Arthur’d rolled his eyes and informed Dutch that he’ll, no doubt, blow it, but being told that only makes John all the more determined to see it through.

There’re three of them set in Westward and they’ve been here for a couple hours, playing poker amidst themselves; the station clerk’d joined in for a few hands, but busted out after John enticed him into putting it all on the line for a deal that he’d rigged to win. Now, just the three of them play and he practices palming, switching cards idly between the deals, bored by the waiting.

“Stop that,” Evelyn mutters, glanced over from her pair of cards with sharp eyes.

“Ain’t done nothing,” he protests, all innocence. He lays his cards facedown and leans back in his chair, arms held wide. “Why’re you worked up that I looked at my cards? Ain’t against the rules.”

The round’s dealer, Vance, chokes on a laugh. “John’s about as innocent as Evelyn’s cross-eyed,” he drawls, Southern accent slipping heavy from his tongue. “Saw you switch ‘em out,” he adds, siding against him.

“Corner’s poked out your sleeve,” she notes, laying her cards down. “Foldin’ again. Vance, when’re you gonna deal me something sweet like a Southern gentleman ought for a lady?”

John swears and pulls his arms in, sees where the cardstock sticks out under the buttoned-down cuff. Damnit, he’s been swapping in and out cards for about ten hands now, but it burns to get caught at it the once. “Maybe when you’s act like a lady,” he mutters, a dig for calling him out.

The explosion sounds from the southmost township and cuts short their bickering, signal for the three of them to move out. John plucks the card from his sleeve and flicks it towards Vance, who gathers up the deck to tuck into a pocket. Evelyn, light and swift on her feet, already has the reins of her gelding and Vance’s mare pulled from the hitching post.

Train’d pulled into the station half an hour before, steam engine idling while folk disembark; cargo’d been unloaded, but the monies ain’t meant to be transferred off for another hour or more. Plenty of security stuck around to protect it, but turns out hard to hold focus on their job when the nearby town’s smoking and screaming. Dust and debris scattered out from Southern draws most of them guards off the cars, eyes turned to the smoke cloud rising from the remains of the township’s jail. Confusion runs rampant, matched to their intent, and allows Vance to mount up without notice, taking the gelding’s lead as Evelyn boards the train.

All three of them pull up their bandanas, calm to the chaos, and John jogs to the locomotive; he draws his revolver to discourage them in the front from doing anything rash as he steps up. “This here’s a hold-up,” he informs the soot-stained engineer and stoker, gesturing that both ought step _off_. They play smart and take the suggestion, hands held up shakily and anxious glances exchanged; he tips his gun in grateful salute to their taking the route what’d see them alive come the end of the day.

The plan’s idea goes that the best way of robbing the train is to steal it first; there ain’t many miles of track beyond Westward, but they ain’t planning on using it for a clear getaway. John’s been taught plenty how to get the train started up again and he applies that here, feeling the lurch as the brakes release their purchase on the iron wheels; triggers off that slow, jarring start of what’d become the easy sway during a long train ride.

Fourth car down the line carries the payload and that’s where Evelyn works; he can hear the crack of a couple gunshots, figures it her dealing with the few guards left. Most’re standing dumbstruck on the station platform about now, pulled off by the explosion and confounded by the train up and leaving, and that suits. He ain’t saw any horses hitched up, meaning they’ll be hard-pressed to give chase on anything but foot.

John steps back from the mess of dials and valves; the pace set, he turns around and grabs hold of the railing tacked outside the tender. Leans out and sees Vance pacing the fourth car on his mare, watches as Evelyn stretches out her arm with the first of their three saddlebags ready to hand off. Grins under the cover of his bandana, giddy with that rush of a plan running to fruition in all them ways that’ll irritate Arthur when they regale him with it ‘round the campfire.

Then, right at that moment when he figures the job perfectly executed, their luck goes to hell.

Two guards must’ve caught up and jumped on the caboose before the speed picked up; their faces are iron as they crowd out between the cars. One leans around the next car, sights down a rifle until it lines up with Vance’s back, and pulls the trigger. John bites back a shout, drawing his revolver too late to counter the shot.

The bullet hits Vance and he jerks, surprised; the gelding’s lead slips from his hands and things carve into slow motion, John’s eyes wide; he watches him crumple sideways, thrown from his mare at her swift pace. Can’t hear nothing from the locomotive, but when Vance’s neck goes one way and his body the next, ain’t no need to hear the snap to know he ain’t surviving.

Late and lethal, two shots from his revolver put the rifle-bearing guard out of commission and John shouts at Evelyn to move, her angry swearing a ripe sound even as the racket of the train running suffuses the air. She leans out the car, has the three saddlebags over her shoulders and whistles sharp at her gelding. When he runs up alongside the tracks, she makes the jump to his saddle and spurs him faster.

John lays down four more shots to supress the second guard, his anger up at losing Vance and his concern spiked that she rides up over open stretches of land. Takes him seconds to reload, fingers steady to spite the adrenaline coursing through him, and then he leans out.

“Marston!” Evelyn’s caught up with the locomotive, leaned forward on her horse to diminish her profile. “Vance ain’t-“

“I know!” he shouts back, gesturing her forward. “You ride, I’ll shoot!”

Seems the best solution to their situation and he leans out to make the leap to the gelding, then-

John feels the fangs of the lead viper tear into his arm, inches below the shoulder as the venomous bullet lodges against the bone. His fingers lose their grip on the railing and he stumbles backwards into the engineer’s compartment, swearing as pain shoots through him.

“Fuckin’... You okay?”

There’s that hazey moment before the realization hits that he’s been shot; he hears Evelyn shout, then her curse again as another shot comes fired from the final guard. John can’t holster his gun fast enough, can’t put a hand to the wound; he has to move and force himself back to the edge, ready to jump.

Then comes the thud of three saddlebags landing on the vibrating planks of the engine floor.

John blinks at them, struck dumb, and jerks his head up, looks to her.

Evelyn turns out second to fall, hand outstretched from when she’d thrown the take to where he’d get it, faint smirk curving her mouth as she sees them land, her final victory. Then, like she’d known it were coming, the bullet cuts through her brain and the body left behind tumbles from her horse. Vance’s mare and her gelding both veer off without their riders and John stands there, mind blank a moment as the fallout of the job starts crashing down on him.

Vance dead.

Evelyn dead.

This ain’t the first time folk die, won’t be the last; ain’t the easiest either, seeing them die and knowing they’re his goddamn responsibility to see through this.

The shudder of the train along the tracks jars him, loses his balance and he stumbles sideways against the wall. His shot shoulder glances off it and he bites back the yelp of pain, glares at the bloody mess. John still has his revolver, reloaded, and one guard remains standing. Anger surges, at himself and his goddamn luck; he jams his forearm in the space between the brass railing and the tender, tricks himself a moment that the agony from his weight pulling down that shoulder and arm has no grounding in reality, and leans out.

Wind whistles past his ears, the shrill song a focus point he uses, separates it out, separates himself out.

Looks down the length of the train and sees the guard lean out with an eye to shoot him.

John raises his revolver, shoots him first.

The body pitches from the train and he pulls himself back, gun slipped into the holster before he uses his good hand to pry his forearm free, pulling it against his body. Fire burns where the bullet bit into flesh, engulfing his arm above the elbow and ebbing only after his shoulder. John feels the stickiness of blood flowing from it, soaking the sleeve of his shirt, but the entry wound sits too high on his arm to easily bandage and he knows it has to be dealt with.

Quickly.

Precious few miles remain between him and the end of the line and he has no way off the train and no idea how to stop it; all they’d worried on been him starting the train, ain’t no need to stop it when they have two horses ready to go. And then the fuckin’ blood keeps flowing from the wound, distracting him from making a plan. This rate keeps up and he’ll fade; he needs to do something, looks about for some desperate option.

The stoker’d dropped his shovel midway through clearing the intake and he can feel the heat of the coal burning, sees the red of it beyond his reach. John sees the shovel blade, loaded down with hot coals, and that gives him the idea.

Damn stupid idea, but it beats bleeding out.

He pulls at the hole in his sleeve where the bullet punched through, tearing it away and down with a roughly muffled yell when threads of it snap apart across broken skin. The wound, left exposed, feels both painfully hot and chilled in the air. John grabs the shaft of the shovel and shakes the coal from it, pulls it out and feels the heat radiating off the steel.

This has to be the stupidest idea he’s had.

Draws quick, deep breaths in through his nose and he clenches his jaw, shifting his hand until the shovel’s blade hovers over his shoulder. He bites down them words of self-preservation what tells him, in Arthur’s voice no less, that he is a complete dumbass to do this. Then, before the air can put chill to the metal, he presses down the burning hot steel over his arm.

Skin sears and agony floods outward from the point of contact, overwhelming every sense until he comes back around, stumbled back and flat on his ass, the shovel thrown aside and his arm an angry humming hive of pain.

When he chances the look at it, the poor attempt to cauterize it’s done enough. Blackened bits of fabric and skin stick at the edges and the hot, pulsing hurt of the burn settles into his flesh. The blood’s all but stopped and that’s what he needs. John flexes his hand, manages about half his usual movement before the muscles lock up, but that’ll do.

Train keeps hurtling down the tracks, speed picking up, and there ain’t much line left; he’s got a mile, at best and a mind to move fast. John grabs the three saddlebags, throws them uncomfortably over his good shoulder before he starts his way back through the cars. Bypassing the blood, the bullets, the remaining guards dealt with by his team before his team’d been dealt dead, he’s keeping to the remnants of the original plan.

The payload car’s quiet when he steps in it, a silence John breaks by shattering a bottle of rum against the woodplank flooring. He lights a match and throws it down to catch on the liquor and start chasing hot lines along the wood. The idea’s to have the money look burned up in the crash that’s about to happen.

John keeps working his way back to the caboose, time run short and options sparse on how to get himself off the train in one piece. His horse is hitched a mile before the end of the line, where Evelyn was gonna drop him so they could scatter, regroup with the rest of the gang.

Only she’s dead, Vance’s dead, and John’s still on the train.

Looks around, knows his time had come down to minutes, at best.

There’re a couple thin mattresses on the bunks and a bolted-down seat that’s crowded in the rear corner. John moves there, grabs a mattress and stuffs it in, folding himself in atop it before he hauls the other over him. He’s curled up, half protected and half an idiot, and braces for the coming end.

Everything shatters not long after, the shrill scream of metal piercing the air, and he feels the rumble as the locomotive lurches off tracks that no longer exist. The strongest of shudders and then it’s like everything’s been thrown in the air and shit if he doesn’t double down his death grip on the saddlebags and brace himself best he can in his poorly padded escape.

Then the rumble roars louder, rattle and crashing as the caboose twists off the tracks and rolls, dented and broken and John just-

Darkness floods his senses and nothing surrounds him.

Then there’s snapping fire driving away the cool breeze that drifts across him. John pulls himself back to awake in the ruined remains of the train. The caboose flipped and rolled with him in it, ended up perpendicular to the end of the line and that’s probably what saved him from worse.

The measure of worse being against scrapes and bruises, his shoulder burning, and his head aching; but, for all that he is still alive, one of the mattresses lodged under him, the other long disappeared in the wreckage. He groans and sits up, fights the wave of nausea that surges the sour taste of bile to his tongue; this ain’t unfamiliar, the pain, and when he gingerly probes at the back of his head, his fingers come away with blood, sticky and drying. That’d be why he lost time, must’ve been out a while for the blood to be slow and sluggish over hot and hurting.

Takes him a few tries to get to his feet, his shot arm nothing but trouble when he staggers to rest against the torn up wall of the train car, jarring it. A hiss of pain slips past him and he holds himself upright, but unsteady, as he checks the wound. Heat radiates from it, the burn holding the skin closed, and he takes a second to pull a piece of slivered wood from the torn edge of his shirt.

It’s when he’s trying to get a sense of next steps that the saddlebags jump to the forefront of his thoughts, slamming their priority in place with an aching thud. John turns around and grabs them, one by one, from where he’d first woken up. They go over his good shoulder, laden heavy still with cash and coin.

Staggers out of train’s remains with only the take and his battered pride, splintered wood and twisted metal making treacherous the route. John finds his way, stumbling, to the end of the line and backtracks, whistles every few hundred feet until he hears the whinny of his mare. She’s managed to pull her reins loose from where she’d been left hitched and she comes with a quick step, a questioning nicker as she butts her nose into his hand.

John murmurs praise to her, strained and brief, as he secures the saddlebags in place. Then he mounts Lady and turns from the tracks. Rides out hard and fast, leaving the burning wreck behind, before the law can catch up and clue in that the fiery mess left behind didn’t consume none of the money and that they’d all been played like a goddamn fiddle.

-

The gang broke camp before the job, the plan to meet again in a glade run by a creek that’s three towns to the north-east. This’ll keep their profile low, their tracks scattered as they establish a new home in the lush woods of the area. Each team’s got a different route to take and it’s perfect to keep law, bounty hunters off their trail.

Harder to track this way too; a few individual riders can give the slip easier than eight lumped together. They’ve one wagon for the lot of them, loaded with supplies, and it’s secluded safely in that glade. They rode it ahead by about a week, kept to the main roads for speed there and back; and everyone’d been living rough or renting rooms since, until they can get back to their tents and goods and, luck holding, hole up in style, flush with money from the crossroads.

Vance had the damn map with their route and Evelyn the compass and he’s cursed that fact a few times; this should’ve stranded him, but John’s the one that rode out there with Arthur to drop the wagon. His head’s hurting, concussed from the crash, but he’s pretty sure that he’s headed the right way.

The trek takes him nearly a week, all the while the ache of his shoulder getting worse each morning, but he’s hauling three saddlebags padded thick with cash. Ain’t worth the risk to stop in the one town en route what has a surgeon that could pull the bullet and stitch it proper. Last thing he needs is to be robbed of his robbings, so he keeps riding on.

When the fever of infection starts warming him, John digs through his supplies and drinks down bitters, health tonics to keep it at bay, to keep himself moving forward as he ignores the lure of rest each time he lets his mare slow for a spell. John fights that temptation when it shifts into the pull, like a hooked line caught in him to drag him down; tells himself he’ll make it fine without stopping no more than necessary.

Each day’s harder, his stamina exhausted a little more from the last and exhaustion starting to creep up on him with the constant ache that’s replaced the skin and bone of his arm. He ends up binding his arm and shoulder as tight to his torso as he can, to keep it from being jostled as he rides.

John’s got a good eye for shooting with his off-hand and ain’t no chore to ride one-handed, but Lady's not happy when he can't pull her tack at the end of each day and instead just leads them off the road. Deep into the woods, where he can rest a few hours without idle riders seeing them and she can graze on rich green grasses and sweet blossoms. John eats salted meat or canned beans, usually cold because the effort of a fire’s too much after the day’s ride, and they both pull water from whatever source he finds. Fitful sleep follows until dawn’s light wakes him and then it’s time to mount up and move on.

-

Problem is that John rides into river-rich territory that’s thick with forests and scattered with narrow trails that obscure his memory of which way to go. The plan’s to meet up at twelve days and he’s here at seven, convinced that it’ll take him the last five days to make sense of the area, make any headway to the destination.

All he needs to do is find the glade with the narrow coursing of a creek.

But he can't find the fucking glade.

John finds plenty of glades and plenty of creeks; dozens of pristine, otherwise untouched clearings that'd make Arthur itch to sketch out the flowers, the trees, and the wildlife that scatters with squirrels nattering angrily at him for the disturbance.

But he can’t find the fucking glade and he can’t find the fucking wagon.

What frustrates him is that John knows he marked a few trees on the deer trails near it. He ain’t a complete fool and knew he'd be riding in on game trails what’d be hard to find, so he left himself signs to keep him on track. And just like the glade, he can’t find them; can't find the narrow route they'd fit the wagon through, cursing when it got stuck on a half-rotted stump. Can’t find the rut of the wheel that sunk into the mud.

Worse is knowing that the fever's making it harder to pull his focus together; it’s blurring the edges of his senses and scattering dots through his vision day and night. John spends two days riding circles around where he swears the glade should be, shoulders slumping lower each hour, attention growing hazy.

Third day, John can't ride no more.

He tries; ain’t no one that can accuse him of not trying. Wakes up that morning and gives it his best; mounts Lady in the predawn light and urges her forward as the world started spinning.

Wakes up to see the sun at its zenith, his shoulder aching fierce from being landed on, John flat on the ground with Lady nudging at his hand with her velvety nose. He frowns and rubs his face down, feels the bruises that come from falling off his horse and curses his luck. Takes him a couple tries to stand up, only he almost falls over again when his balance pitches one way, his body the other. John ends up resting his good arm over Lady’s saddle, braced across the pommel and his fingers wrapped around the stirrup leather. Uses her bulk to hold himself up and walk.

Maybe that's what does it.

The pace is slower than a snail on a stroll; slows him down enough that he sees the mark on a tree, etched quick with his knife a few weeks back. Sap trickled down out of the wound in the bark and left a sticky reminder of where to go.

The route.

Fucking finally.

John follows it, leaning on Lady and grateful that she's patient and calm. She’s also the first horse that he’s ever actually owned, bought with money stolen off a stage when he was sixteen. That’d been the first big job they brought him on and he’d been proud to spend his take on her. John loves the damn horse and she seems to love him just as much, or maybe it’s the apples he feeds her, or the carrots he steals from Arthur’s satchel as a real treat. Whatever it is, she endures his lopsided weight and doesn’t step on him as he adjusts their direction, starts following the cross-cut marks left in his past self’s wake.

The glade comes up and John lets out a sigh of relief as he hears the creek's course bubbling in the background. Trees spread apart from the game trail and he can see the wagon, tucked back in the shade of three stubborn, crooked pines. He stumbles there with Lady and hitches her to the spokes of a rear wheel. It’s the closest he can get her to where he can search through their supplies, finding a bottle of bitters to down. He ran out two days back, his shoulder’s killing him, and he’s ready to fall asleep where he stands.

It braces him some, the tonic, and gives him the stamina to work, one-handed, at setting up a rough camp, nudging together a scattered stone circle for the central firepit. There's a big oak tree, branches heavy with leaves, that stretches over a good third of the clearing. John checks it, finds a deep groove dug down into the roots, signs of an abandoned warren. Here is where he stuffs the three laden saddlebags and hastily scatters leaves, sticks, and debris over the tunnel openings.

Better to keep the money safe.

Two people died for it.

John ain’t even sure how the other teams managed, whether everyone made it out or not. Truth told, he doesn’t really care right then. There’s more to be done and he works with his one good arm to loosen and pull Lady’s saddle, staggering under the imbalanced weight as he drops it to the ground. Ain’t the right way to leave it, but he’s more worried about the dirt engrained in her coat and puts his focus to brushing out the worst of it before it can wear into sores.

Evening’s darkening the sky as he drags in dry, splintered wood and narrow logs that he don't need to split to make a crooked woodpile. He puts together an equally crooked fire, feeding it dry mosses that he found hanging on the pine trees until he’s got flames and heat enough to chase the night’s chill.

There’s a fallen log near his haphazard firepit that John sits up against, breathing hard from the bare minimum work what’s needed to get things started and sorted for living here. He’s got a bottle of moonshine that he sets next to him and, beside that, a tin with medical supplies. He figures that if he rests an hour, he’ll be able to deal with his shoulder before anyone else shows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor John. I started this on December 22, 2020 as a Christmas gift for a friend and it snowballed into a six part monster that explores exactly what it is that defines whether a person is lucky or not.
> 
> There's no update schedule on this one because ASM's always my priority and it gets the Sunday slot. I have all six parts drafted in varying degrees of completion, so it's a matter of filling out the words. I'm challenging myself here to write in present tense and 100% digitally, instead of penning and typing it. It's a more casual piece, but I hope y'all enjoy!
> 
> Also, I blame Helvel. As usual. They got me into Morston.
> 
> iluall and g'night!
> 
> \- Kichi @[KichiWhy](https://twitter.com/KichiWhy) (Twitter)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some graphic wound care this chapter, heads up to scroll past after the 3-2-1 countdown if that sort of thing bothers you. Safe and clear after the "Want me on first watch?" line.

That hour turns to two and then to midnight, and that’s when he jerks awake to Lady calling whinnied greeting to something in the dark. The fire’s burned low while John drifted in and out of sleep; it sheds little light to put definition to the shuffling of branches and leaves what approaches from the south. Bleary and wary, he pulls his revolver and aims it towards the sound.

"Who goes there?"

There’s silence, the stillness brief before a chuckle greets him, dry and deep. “It’s me, dumbass.”

Arthur’s voice serves to ease that caution, has John relaxing back and sliding his gun back into its holster; grating and teasing the tone is, but also steady and safe and it’s the first time since the job that he’ll have someone watching his back and it’s exhausting to suffer through’ the relief that brings. He rubs at his face, palm scratching against the scruff that’s barely built up after a week without shaving. Watches as he rides into the clearing, relaxed and unhurt from his part of the job, over to where Lady’s tethered.

He dismounts and wraps the reins in a loop around the spokes, stops a second to nudge at where John dropped the saddle earlier. Disapproving because they both know John’s been taught to respect tack better than this, so it being discarded’s a sign that raises up caution. When Arthur makes his way over, his eyes are quick to note the bound strips of cloth around his arm, but he doesn’t say nothing yet. Just crouches down across the fire and looks around to the shoddy, vacant camp. “Just you?”

There ain’t no help in getting defensive over this, but John ain’t full processed that them two are dead and he stiffens at the question. “Lyn got shot. Vance’s dead, too,” he mutters, staring into the fire. There’s no comfort there in the twisting flames and no answers for the surging, angry inadequacy he feels over the topic. It crackles and burns, weak and hungry for fuel, as it ignores him.

“Shit.” Arthur drops down to sit on the ground, his boots scuffing lines in the dirt. He reaches over and grabs a couple twisted branches from the haphazard pile, starts feeding them to the fire, waking it up again. “Guess that makes you one lucky son of a bitch,” he adds as he coaxes life and heat both back into the air.

John laughs bitterly and starts pulling the bindings off his arm and shoulder. "Got shot," he mutters. Winces when a strip of fabric sticks to the edge of his injury, tears skin away with it, but he keeps at it. Twists and wraps the bindings around his palm as he does it until he’s got a dirty bundle of cloth.

“Any time you walk away from a job’s a lucky time,” is what he gets sent back his way, even toned and blunt with its truth. "Walking out with a gunshot ain't bad." Arthur pauses and watches him work, one-handed and awkward, over the smokey flames for a few minutes. "You want help with that?" The question’s more amused than an offer, probably because John looks like a fool by the effort it’s taking.

Irritated, he shakes his head and throws the torn bindings into the fire with a huff; starts pulling at the ragged remains of his shirt. It’s been worn thin, filthy from not being changed out, and he adds it to the growing flames because there’s no salvaging it at this point. "I got this,” he says. His shoulder's locked up, tender and red, and refuses to budge when he tries to roll it back. He feels the pressure of the infection trapped there, skin stretched to shining and painful from keeping it in, the burned stretch of it started to heal into a fragile layer.

John can feel the way he’s being watched as he tries to deal with this and he stops, glaring over at Arthur, who’s got this blend of irate concern clouded in his expression. “What?” he snaps, tired of hurting, from hurting.

"The hell you expect to do with one arm?" he asks, going calm and that just annoys him further.

There’s challenge there and John lifts up his head, jaw set stubbornly. "Cut out the damn bullet," he says, matter of fact. The fever tells him it's a fine idea; that bullet's been sitting there a week, cozied up to the bone, and it’s past time to evict it.

"Christ, John, you ain't no surgeon." Arthur's getting to his feet and though he looks tired from the ride, there’s resignation there that spoils the intent, says he’s going to help for all he’s bitching at John about how he’s planning to handle it.

John feels flush and blames the fever. "Neither are you," he grumbles. He remembers the moonshine and leaves off his shoulder to grab at it. Pulls the cork out to take a drink, dull the pain, and fleetingly sate the thirst that’s dried out his mouth. That it’ll blur the lines of his perception is a bonus, so he don’t try to kill Arthur when he starts cleaning the wound.

"Leave that be," is the order and John takes a long swallow of moonshine, defiant.

"Y'ain't pouring that on it," he protests, holding tight to the bottle with his good hand so that it can’t be used against him. Cauterizing the hole in his arm’d been painful enough and he knows how much alcohol _hurts_ over an open wound and damn if he’s going to let that happen.

Arthur snorts his amusement and sets down a canteen with water, his own tin of medical supplies on the log. He takes the bottle without needing to work much at it, his grip stronger and focus better. “’Course not,” he says, lifting it to take a long drink himself. “You ain’t hogging it all.”

John laughs and it pulls some of the tension out of his neck and back, soothes him with their well-worn banter. Nothing's sacred around them, not no more; they’ve been ‘round each other too long to long to have qualms over sharing a bottle of ‘shine. Nearin’ half the life that he’s got recollection of that Arthur’s been there, familiar to the point that he's got no thoughts to what he'd do if Arthur weren't there no more. Makes John queasy to think on it even brief – or maybe that's the fever. Things're hazy and getting hard to track.

"You look like shit," Arthur says, straddling the log so he can get at his shoulder. He pulls his knife out of its sheath and holds it out for John, who takes it and wipes the blade on his trousers twice. He holds it out over the lick of the flames to burn off whatever dirt's left; ain't the first time they've done field surgery, won't be last, and they both know what to do.

John yelps and near drops the knife into the fire when Arthur presses hard at his shoulder to test it, sore flesh yielding nothing but pain. "Feel like shit," he manages, gasping to get his breath back, fingers pressed tight and pale on the hilt of the knife. When there’s a pause and the hands lift off him, John looks back at Arthur, catches the troubled furrow in his brow. "What?"

"You ain't s'pposed to cauterize it 'til the bullet's out," is his angry reply. Like John’d had the time and space to do something different, but went with the idiot’s route and that adds to the burning flush creeping up his neck. "I gotta cut through that now."

"Yeah, there ain't been much choice," he shoots back, frowning. John tells him 'bout the train and the gunshot; Evelyn tossing him the saddlebags before she died; Vance breaking on the hard ground. He feels the weight of their deaths push down on him as he speaks, both of them younger. Fresher faces and near to friends 'round the poker table and Vance had a way of counting tiles what made him undefeated at dominoes. Weren't closely bound like him and Arthur, but weren't strangers neither. His voice grates against the loss as it catches up, demands penance for a week spent without thinking more than a passing thought.

"Folk like us fall all the time," Arthur says and it's shit consolation. "They knew this was the cost of the life."

"Don't make it easier," John whispers, legs drawn up. There's a hand pressed on top of his head, gentle petting down the back of it, then a sharp pain as Arthur’s palm catches on the dried blood from when the train went off the tracks with him aboard it. “Shit, careful!” slips out before he can think and he’s ducked away.

“You really done a number on yourself, Johnny,” Arthur mutters, careful to put his hand on his good shoulder instead, pulling him back again. Ain’t pure regret in his tone, but causing pain to them that matter always bothers the older man and that’s what chases his words.

John snorts and holds the knife back towards him. “C’mon,” he says, before he can change his mind and decide a doctor’s the right call here. “Waiting ain't gonna make this easy none." He draws his good arm around his legs, puts his forehead against his knees and holds himself still as he can. There’s that trembling of anticipation that he can’t full shed, knowing the blade’ll be cutting soon, but he sets his jaw firm and bites his lip.

Arthur tells him he'll cut on three and starts the countdown.

Three…

Two…

One…

Finishes counting and seconds pass without so much as a breeze touching his skin.

John feels nothing but irritation to that, opens his mouth to demand why Arthur ain’t started like he’d counted to. "What the he-" Cuts off with a choked gasp as steel twice digs sharp and deep through the burned entry wound.

The pressure of an infection trying to burst his skin drains, lanced and eager to seep its way free. He hears Arthur's curse as the clouded pus forces its way out through those quick cuts. Water's poured over his shoulder from the canteen and it's cold, painfully so, after days of burning hurt.

The dam's burst and a week of doing his damn best to ignore the wound's over.

John shoves his forehead down against his knees, shuddering as his tries to steady out the gasping breaths he's instinctively taking against the waves of pain, the disorientation that the fever's cast over him. He's crying and this hides it, because he can't stop it, and he has to swallow back the surge of nausea while his body reacts to being hurt and changed and not in control of either.

Abrasive is the cloth wiping away the water and, with it, traces of the infection's refuse. Arthur's knife digs in again and finds the bullet with the point. It shifts. John tries and fails to hold back the whine of it as the knife wiggles a bit to loosen it before it’s pulled free, set aside. Fingers push gently on the tender, fever-hot skin, inwards from the edge to dislodge the bullet further, to force it out. Warm blood starts to flow over pus and he hears the relieved sigh from Arthur when the bullet comes free on the third time he does it.

"You doin' good, John," he says absently, setting aside the spent lead. Then, turns out Arthur lied about the moonshine being for him to drink.

John yells when he feels it poured over the wound, curses him loudly for being a lying bastard about it. He tries to punch his shin with his good arm, but the angle's wrong and Arthur just grunts.

"Gotta flush it clean," is his reason and he hates the ring of truth to it.

John doesn't pass out the first time the moonshine rinse cuts through, at least; the second time, it's a near thing and he grits his teeth, bites his tongue to focus on that pinpoint of pain that he can feel and control. When the cool touch of a salve, one of Hosea's concoctions, is spread over it to draw out the infection is when he finally starts to feel relief. His arm’s limp and he doesn’t fight or help much as fresh cotton and gauze is wrapped over his shoulder, around the arm, around his torso and tied in place.

Arthur tosses the cloths that are stained with wound rot into the fire, then carefully checks the back of his head, pouring cold water over the dried blood to clean it and he winces. Then it’s done and he puts a hand on the back of John's head, smooths down his hair. "Good boy," he murmurs, standing up to move around to his other side and sit down next to him. This puts Arthur on his good side, where it’s safe to put an arm around his shoulders, careful as he tries to get John to uncurl from his little protective cocoon of legs and an arm. "C'mon, Johnny. You done good."

The words trigger a warmth in him, recognition that he’s survived this, and John tilts his head to the side, cracks an eye to look at Arthur. "Want me on first watch?" he manages, thoughts cloudy as he tries to pull together the next step they have to take to be safe and secure here.

Arthur snorts and shakes his head. "You need to rest, idiot," he says, but the insult ain't with venom. Concern’s still there, that irritation he always has when John’s screwed up and gotten hurt, but they ain’t facing real danger here, so he’ll probably forgive him. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

"You been riding all day," he mutters. John hates being treated like he’s damn glass or useless or both. He got shot, but that ain’t mean he can’t hold his gun and keep watch.

"And you been riding a week with that wound," is his countermanded order. Arthur shakes him gently with the arm around his shoulders, but weren't angry, just that tired patience that frustrates him more.

“Ain’t the first time I been shot,” he grumbles, shrugging off the arm. John figures he’ll at least put on a new shirt and stumbles to his feet. The walk over to Lady takes longer than he expects, his feet meandering through a path he don’t want them to, but he gets to where her saddle lays.

“First time you let it rot,” Arthur’s countering from back at the fire and he shrugs it off.

“Ain’t that bad,” he insists as he fumbles the straps off of his bedroll and digs out a worn shirt out. It’s old, handed down from Arthur when he got too broad in the chest, and it’s still too big on John, but that makes it easier to pull on even if it takes a couple tries.

His balance keeps shifting on him, trying to fall over and take him with it.

Lady’s not helping, the edges of her blurring in and out of focus.

Things start spinning and his head starts pounding, his stomach roiling.

Hears Arthur curse something fierce and the scramble of boots on dirt.

Least John don’t feel the ground when he hits it.

-

Takes him over a dozen tries to wake up, each of them different; some blur together, others don’t, and most he can’t remember after they’ve come and gone.

First time’s a few minutes later, John finding himself leaned up on the log again, head hurting and vision still wobbling. He hears Arthur working at something and half turns, sees him putting up their tent over near the oak tree and there’s something important about that tree. Doesn’t remember it right then, but there’s something and he needs to--

Third time he’s inside the tent, up off the ground on Arthur’s cot, with his blanket and coat on top of him, but John’s freezing cold. He sees the glow of the campfire outside, taunting him with its heat held beyond his reach. John tries to get up so he can sit near it and soak up the warmth, but he doesn’t make it far before he stumbles. The noise brings Arthur into the tent, who scowls and pulls him to his feet, puts him back to resting on the cot. Bastard ignores his complaints about the cold, says he’s too hot but that’s stupid an--

Fourth time, John wakes drenched in sweat and his injured arm throbbing in time with his head and he feels like he’s back on the train, burning his shoulder again, watching them die and then Arthur’s there, pushing him back down on the cot and telling him it was a dream. He fights it, says this is dream, the other stuff’s so vivid but he’s tired and doesn’t hold out long before--

Seventh time, he can hear Dutch and Arthur talking about the take and that makes him think of the oak tree again, but he can’t remember why. There’s bustle outside the tent and he catches Grimshaw’s voice talking with Bessie about supplies. Hosea explaining something about diamonds. The camp’s coming together and he gets the sense that everyone else made it. But the oak tree--

Tenth time, there’s a cool cloth on his forehead and it’s late evening; he barely manages to open his eyes, sees Hosea sitting in the tent and talking with Dutch, who’s pulled aside the canvas panel to hold the discussion. John tries to raise his head up, say something about the oak tree, but it pounds at his skull and he lets out a groan.

“Look who’s awake,” sounds like Hosea, feigned light to keep him from worrying. “How’re you feeling, John?”

John manages to point to where he thinks the tree is, manages to say something about oak. Then his exhaustion, ever present, grabs him again and he sinks back down int--

Twelfth time, it’s pitch black in the tent and he hears the faint, familiar snoring of Arthur. Fever’s gone down and his head feels clearer, for all it still aches like a bitch in heat. His shoulder feels ‘bout the same, but the dressing on it’s been changed at least once. He’s laying on his back, getting his senses together, when the importance of the oak tree comes to him.

“Arthur,” he says, voice hoarse and quiet from disuse.

The snoring continues; when they’re safe in camp, it’s damn impossible to wake the man.

“ _Arthur_!” Hissed with urgency and this time he hears the shift of woolen blankets, the scrape of boots on the ground.

“John-?” Sleep-thick as his voice is, there’s relief and that’s stupid, it was just a gunshot and—No, he needs to get this said.

“The take.” John’s set on this, convinced he’ll lose the thread of it if he doesn’t get it out the way he’s lost it eleven times already.

“What ‘bout it?” Arthur’s words are cluttered, mumbled around a yawn.

“Hid it. Warren under the oak tree.”

“Shit, you woke me for that?” There’s annoyance in his muttering. “Money ain’t what matters, John.”

“Matters to me,” John says, meaning it. It’s the payment for what he lost, amends for the death of two folk the first time they left him in charge.

Arthur sighs. “Get back to sleep,” he grumbles. There’s the shift and shuffle of wool and canvas as he rolls onto his side, getting comfortable again, then a grunted: “Already found it anyway.”

‘Course he did. Arthur always finds what he’s tried to hide and it’s embarrassing to hear it happening again. John frowns and drops his head back down to where it might hurt a little less. A minute passes and he’s still awake, feeling the toll of being fevered and unconscious however long it’s been. “Fuckin’ thirsty,” he complains.

“Box by the cot.”

John reaches out blindly with his good hand until his fingers catch the edge of a wooden crate. Creeps his grip along it until he finds the canteen. He struggles up a bit, manages to drink it half down with only a few mouthfuls spilled down his throat. He puts it back and lays down again, tired by that small task.

“Thanks,” is what he mutters as he falls back asleep.

-

Feels like he ain’t taken a piss since before Arthur showed; John knows that can’t be true, but _feels_ like it when he wakes again a few hours later. He knows he must’ve taken a couple while trapped in the infection, must’ve been helped through it, but he remembers none of it and that makes the urge to pee that much worse.

John staggers out of the tent without tripping over Arthur; he’s light-headed, but no one’s awake to stop him and so he makes his way out the camp. Ain’t long before necessity has him find a place where he can let his bladder drain for what feels like an hour.

He lets out a long, relieved breath as he’s fumbling the buttons of his trousers back into place afterwards. There’s the creek that feeds out of the clearing near him and he stumbles over to wash up his hand, since ain’t easy or neat to be rushing through that with one-hand.

John’s staring at his reflection the water afterwards, the moon’s light enough to show that all his sleep lately ain’t cleared the shadows under his eyes. He’s lost weight too, and he ain’t ever had much weight he can afford to be losing. Grimshaw’ll give him hell and triple portions to make up for it and his stomach twists at the idea, his appetite left behind at the crossroads.

He starts when he sees Arthur’s reflection come up behind him, looking irate in the pale light.

“What?” he asks defensively; ain’t got no clue what he done to earn the anger.

“Why’re you out here?”

“Needed to take a piss.”

“Shoulda woke me,” is the grumbled order and then Arthur’s picking him up. Tosses him over his shoulder like a sack of grain and John lets out a loud complaint at the action. “Hush,” he mutters at him. “You ain’t dressed to be walking about.”

John’s ready to bitch louder, wake the others if it’ll get him treated decent, but then he realizes his feet are cold, same as his back, because they’ve got nothing on them. He’s been walking around in a pair of trousers, ain’t wearing boots nor shirt, just the dressing on his shoulder and that area’s still pulsing heat enough that he didn’t notice.

“Shit,” comes out his curse and that earns him a laugh. Half upended and indignant, he crosses his arm and watches the ground passing as Arthur carries him back into the tent and drops him on the cot without ceremony.

“Wake me if you’re needin’ things,” Arthur orders as he drops back to the bedroll, yawning. “Goddamn lucky someone’s looking out for you.”

Way John’s starting to see it, there ain’t nothing but bad looking out for him but he’s too annoyed at being hauled around like dry goods to put words to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today on... Don't Try This At Home: Rudimentary Wound Care
> 
> Really, please don't.
> 
> Thank you so much for the kudos and comments. I'm honoured to be able to share this fic with such a supportive fandom. <3
> 
> \- Kichi @[KichiWhy](https://twitter.com/KichiWhy) (Twitter)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to being hanged (hung?) / the lynching of tiny John Marston, some blood and violence, and PTSD cropping up with anxiety and anger.

Four towns, four takes; all of them successful, but only John’s group had casualties and it burns him to think on it. Dutch lauds him for his ingenuity and perseverance in surviving _and_ making it out with the money, like that’s what mattered and it does, but he ain’t feeling that same joy. The first day that he’s up and moving outside of the tent, he’s pulled to the centre of their little camp so that Dutch can announce how proud he is of John for leading a successful job, only there ain’t a team ‘round to appreciate it with him and so John sits silent through it.

Pose and preen’d been the plan, hatched while they was smoking cigarettes and waiting on the signal; three of ‘em could stand proud and let the old timers know that the new generation’s got this, no need to worry when it comes to passing the torch. They’d dreamed of it. John’d dreamed of it, being able to walk into camp with his head held high, considered as good as Arthur after years of being in his shadow. Bragging around the campfire with Evelyn and Vance about how they’d done it all, making inside jokes that only them that’d been there, thieving and winning, might understand.

Now it’s just him and there’s nothing funny about it.

John mutters congratulations to everyone else, manages not to flinch away when Hosea ruffles his hair and tells him to take comfort in the good of what he’s done, not the bad of what he’s feeling. Bessie slips him a bottle of smooth whiskey with a comforting pat on the arm and Susan commends him for the work he did in setting up the camp before the rest rode in. He laughs, a sour taste on his tongue, and blames the good and the bad of it on Arthur.

They may be down two souls, but spirits around camp are high and he’s not ready to feel good about that. Not when he’s still a bit light-headed from moving about the clearing and his shoulder’s sore from being stretched and shifted, clapped upon proudly by Dutch more times than the once. He don’t want the pity, but he does want the excuse of it to retire quick to the tent, claiming pain and exhaustion. Both have to be writ on his face by the way they all accept that and he hates it, hates feeling this _down_ when he knows he ought be pleased.

John heads into the tent; ignores the look from Arthur and the gesture to come sit near the fire and have some food. He’s still recovering, and Hosea understands with a nod, asks Arthur to give the boy some space as there’ll be plenty of time to stuff him with food and liquor once the last traces of infection clear up. Tells John to rest long as he needs to, ‘cause they got money for months now thanks to these jobs and _well done_.

Burns in him, this praise he’d always wanted and now ain’t liking the taint of; ain’t no one mad at him but himself and that makes his mood run fouler. John lays with his back to the entrance of the tent he shares with Arthur, stays that way even as the older man stumbles in hours later, murmuring an apologetic curse to his unmoving form. Drunk and celebrated in his place, it seems, and when John feels the grip of sleep take him, it’s with that heavy dose of guilt still tainting it.

-

Sleep runs poor and fitful, shortened by nightmare replays of the job gone wrong that wakes John in a cold sweat the next morning. His eyes are blurred with the too-short sleep and it takes a bit to make out the stack of bills set on the box next to the cot, counted out and piled neat sometime during the night. John rubs the grit from his eyes and stares at it, uncomprehending.

“It’s your cut,” says Arthur, sat on the far side of the tent and shaving with the new mirror from a kit he’d gone and stolen a few months back. It’s fine and shiny, something that John’s teased him about for it being far too good for the likes of them. His bedroll’s tucked away to leave them both space, and it reminds John that he’s been using what is actually Arthur’s space in getting past the injury and its infected taint.

He stares at the money a while, brow furrowed; Dutch’d taught him numbers good and these? They don’t add up. “It’s too much,” he protests, sitting up. He drops his legs over the side of the cot, hands grabbing the money and fanning the bills, counting again to the same conclusion.

“S’cause we all talked,” Arthur replies, casual and then cursing when he cuts a nick in his jaw. “Figured you ought get their share, since you done their part too.” He’s wiping off the blade on his denim slacks, a trace of blood from the slip. Whether he intends to or not, he ain’t looking John in the eyes as he talks, seems to keep his eyes on the reflection in the mirror but still he feels like he’s being watched.

That logic don’t make sense to John; they never change the cut when someone falls. There’s nothing fair to it and he ain’t ever heard Dutch or Hosea talking different about it. It’s always who that survive what get their portions, no messing about. The gang’s half gets pulled from the sum of it, then the rest is split between them that made it and it’s something that none of them question.

John stares at it and that sour twist is back in his gut. His mouth feels dry, bitter, and he fumbles at the bills to peel off his third. “Don’t want it,” he mutters as he tosses the rest to the ground angrily.

There’s a shrug and the quick shift of his gaze in the reflection, catching sight of John’s angry slouch. “Then go ‘n give it to the nuns in town,” is the reply, like Arthur expected him to reject it. Like Arthur knows how he’s feeling, that he’s let them all down and instead all they’re doing is holding him up and none of them are brave enough to confront him.

Hell, he ain’t even brave enough to confront it himself.

John fucking hates it, feels it boiling under his skin at being treated like some glass treasure when he damn deserves to be shattered.

“Maybe I will.”

-

John does just that when he rides into the nearby town a few days later. Quaint little town that it is, with a hotel, two saloons, a stretch of dry goods and supply stores to keep the locals happy and productive. It’s just large enough to have been blessed, a questionable term in his thinking, with a convent and the few nuns there take on the care of orphaned children. Arthur’s suggestion to see the monies in their hands ain’t wrong and it aligns with values that Dutch and Hosea have lauded and lorded about them since he was first cut from the noose and brought into camp, feral and ferocious. Take from them that can afford it and see that those what can’t are made better by it; seems wholesome, and offsets the whole looting and robbing and killing that the ideals require in the execution.

Only, he ain’t here for the recognition and don’t want anyone knowing where the monies are from, so he drops most of the two-thirds that would’ve been Evelyn and Vance’s takes into a canvas sack. This he tosses easily over the cobblestone walls of the convent, ducking away at the startled noises that emerge. That it doubles as an orphanage is all the more allure to scattering fast, because he spent enough time runnin’ from places like that to set foot in one willingly.

Rest of the take he spends in other ways.

Stops by the gunsmith sat secure in the middle of the main drag and orders some engravings and a Cattleman revolver, customized with a blackened steel finish and bone grip. There’s a leatherworker over by the stables and he steps in, orders a new saddle for Lady that’ll suit her nice. Puts most of his portion to those, since he’d been thinking and talking big for ages about how he’d use his first big take to do it. Ain’t about to let Arthur nor anyone tease him for being all hot air about them plans.

Stables Lady for upwards of a week, figuring on sticking around in town until his things are ready, and heads over to the saloon to spend the rest of it on whiskey and a woman that first night. Both leave him feeling tired, empty, and dry the next morning when he wakes alone at the hotel room he’s rented. John rolls over and stares at the ceiling, annoyed by the sticky patch on the sheets but not awake enough to do nothin’ about it, and realizes that this sour taste in his mouth is either vomit on regret. 

More’n’likely it’s both, after how much he drank.

At least his arm ain’t hurting so much no more, even though that feels like the only part of him what don’t.

Spends more than ten days in town that way, the rest of his squirreled away money drained on whiskey and none on women after that first disappointing night. Breathes a sigh of relief, almost, when he gets word that the saddle’s ready and, not long after, that the gunsmith’s finished with his order. It’ll be good to get back to camp and he’s feeling more like himself, less beaten down by the train and the infection; figures he’ll be able to get back on his feet, move ahead again after this tough run of luck.

Lady looks gorgeous in her new tack and that gives him a surge of pride what washes away the stained reminder that her last set’d been second-hand, Vance’s from when he joined the gang and used his first take to replace it. This one suits her, was built for her, and it chases the memories further to the dark recess of his mind, same place as he puts all his hurts and shames to be lost in time.

John stops in and picks up a scattered spread of things at the general store to tide the camp over; cigarettes, chocolates, and candies to soothe over the fact he up and left for a while. They’ve got some local honey and he buys a jar of it, knows Bessie’ll slip it in Hosea’s tea if his voice gets rough after last winter’s cough. Buys up gun oil when he picks up his new revolver, and some ammunition to burn the last of his cash and replenish what he used on the train.

Takes about ten feet down the street before he’s ripped open a pack of the cigarettes to partake in one, free hand leading Lady and letting her adjust to the weight of her new saddle, the feel of it. She’s tossed her head back and forth a few times, the matched bridle a new sensation that seems to amuse her. He laughs softly and nudges her neck with his shoulder, tells her she’s a good mare, and feels like the clouds are starting to lift off him.

The murmurs of praise, a habit picked up from shadowing Arthur for years, die off on his lips as he slows near the double-platform station that services the rail line that passes the edge of town. His eyes check the bounty posters nailed in place, this habit engrained in him by Dutch as a way to measure the heat that any one of them might face in a new area. There’re new posters up, the papers off-white instead of the aged yellow most turn after a few weeks. He stops dead when he sees his likeness over a bounty of one hundred dollars, one John Marston wanted for the murder of railway employees, destruction of railway property, and the theft of railway payroll.

Shit.

Quick-fired is his heartbeat, run rampant with recollections, fleeting and swift, of the four-town job and how it unfolded, desperate to pin down how he got marked. That station clerk, the one they cleared out at poker, would’ve heard their names tossed back and forth in banter between the hands. The engineer and his stoker friend must’ve recalled more, linked him to whatever description the clerk had. Must’ve told the lawfolk of Cardinal Crossroads, who went and put out a bounty on him and shit if that ain’t a bad thing to realize on the tail end of ten days being out in the open.

John tears down the poster, crumples and shoves it into his saddlebags ‘fore any enterprising eyes can see it and make the match to his face. The rest of the bounties he don’t touch, all of them local illicits with lesser crimes and paltry amounts tagged under their mugs. Figures that his best plan’s to report back to Dutch when he reaches camp, let him know that some of the heat from the train job’s managed to follow them this far and they’ll all be safer for knowing it.

Takes himself a bracing breath before he mounts up just north of town and starts riding, keeping Lady’s pace casual like he ain’t aware of the bounty on his head. Like there ain’t nothing wrong and he ain’t no wanted criminal in these here and other parts.

-

The ride to camp’s meant to take three hours, four if the rain comes up.

Takes John near six of them and the ground’s bone dry.

Most of that’s intentional as he takes roundabout routes, away from choke points, places where he’d stage an ambush if he’d been running bounties. Places that Arthur’s taught him are good for catching and bad for escaping from. There’s no proof that he’s been linked to the bounty, but it’s best being safe over getting jumped or, worse, leading outsiders back to camp and so he makes it worth the effort.

Three hours later and he’s only a couple miles outside of town when he’s forced to rein in Lady. Spies two men stepping out into the road, both of them wearing clean, new clothing and holding shining guns, but it’s their knowing expressions that he doesn’t like the look of. 

“John Marston, right?” one of them calls. Confident looking fella with a scar down the side of his neck and a mean glint in his eye; he’s got a shotgun readied and that’s reason enough to keep his distance.

John’s got Lady on tight reins and she threatens to dance at this anxious signal, soothed some by a touch of his hand on her neck as he counts his options and comes out short a few good ones. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he says coolly, pushing his hair back from his face. Ain’t no benefit, playing tense; his shoulders are forced to look relaxed, like he knows this is some sort of mistaken identity and ain’t bothered by none of it. “Name’s-“

“Save it, kid,” the other says and he’s got a rifle levelled his way, held at the hip with the cocky assurance of a man what threatens folk day-in and day-out. “Come on down off the horse. We’re gonna take you in and you can prove to the sheriff who you is or isn’t.”

Professionals, he figures then. The sort that did their research, probably been trailing him a while, if not casing him in town and waiting for him to step outside its boundaries where they can do whatever it takes to bring him in, unbound by local laws about brawling and shooting. Puts him in solid danger, two against one, but there’s no chance he’ll surrender to a couple of jackasses on a country road. Ain’t wanted to bloody his new gun so soon, but.

Well.

Shit.

There ain’t much time to think beyond that, so he doesn’t. John draws his new revolver and shoots the one with the rifle in the gut, appreciates how the sights lined up perfect to his eye and the bullet lodged true. He spurs Lady ahead hard and fast to push past the other, knocks away his shotgun with a kick of his foot as he moves to gallop past and then he figures he’ll be free.

John ain’t figured, though, on the third bounty hunter hid just beyond these two.

Turns out he’s forced to when the hunter’s lasso falls around his shoulders and the aim’s to pull him off. He’s got seconds to lose it and wastes none of them, shrugging it up past his shoulders. It’s almost clear when the length of the rope goes taut as Lady runs past the end of its line. Snaps it tight around his throat and chokes him, jerks him back into freefall in the mare’s dusty trail.

John knows the panic of it, the fear of the rope, and the heavy weight that’s his body hitting the ground; it knocks the breath out of him and flares blunt pain up his spine as he gasps, but there ain’t no air getting in. Loses his grip on the Cattleman, instinct overwhelming sense to ply his fingers at his neck, desperate to loosen the chokehold of the rope, but it just tightens as his nails scrape and scratch at the skin. There’s pull on it, the third hunter on horseback with the rope looped over the saddlehorn, and is drawing his gelding back with quick steps, dragging John until the fight goes out of him.

It don’t.

Dirt churns under his heels, cutting ruts in the soil, and he struggles to gain traction on the ground even as his thoughts are losing it.

Eyes are wide, staring to the sun as he gasps for air; the dust kicked up stings at, blurs his vision as his mind reels from hitting the dirt.

Rope cinches tighter and he knows this feeling, can’t breathe for it.

Caught and dragged, like he was before, as the strands of the rope cut in tight around his neck and he’s dazed, lost in the panic.

S’was just some chickens, he tries to stammer, voice broke and weak.

Cold and tired and hungry and he’s sorry, just let him go and he won’t do it no more.

They ain’t gonna though.

They’ll hang him at twelve years old for stealing a couple chickens when he got nothing to him but his name.

Tears blur his vision as he fights, scatterings of black dots make it hard to see the features as someone stands over him and it’s not the Illinois homesteaders that’re set on lynching him. It’s that second bounty hunter, maybe, and he suddenly ain’t twelve no more. He’s nineteen and a hell of a lot stronger, a hell of a lot taller than he’d been.

Feels the rope on his neck still, the pull of it as he struggles and kicks, desperate in his fight to get out of this. When he’s grabbed up by his shirtfront and hauled to his feet is when John strikes. Drops his hand to his holster in the chaos and the gun ain’t there, but the sheath of his knife is and he draws it.

Yells a feral challenge and plunges it into the man’s face, chasing him down to the earth to repeat the gesture. Barely feels the blood’s spray, hot and sticky, when he loses his grip on the blade. The rope’s jerked back hard and it hauls him over flat on his back again, breath restricted by the lasso that’s still dug into the skin of his neck and he’s struggling, but he’s got fight in him to offset the air that’s wheezed out and lost.

Dragged slow across the ground, this third fella taking no chances no more; he’ll see him pass out before trying to hogtie him and claim the bounty after two of his companions’ve been killed outright. John’s given up the hold at his throat, knows the effort’s a lost one; panicked fingers scramble and scratch hard against the dirt and rocks that slip away.

Then he feels the touch of cold metal, grips it and blindly pulls it close; feels along the barrel and realises it’s the rifle from the first one he fell, fallen from lax fingers when death took him. John can’t do much, on his back, but jams the butt of the rifle in the ground and that helps him flip over. Brings it down with him and he struggles to sight along the barrel as the rope pulls and his neck shifts, aches and screams, same as he does as John looks up.

Meets the man’s gaze and that gives him the shot.

He takes it.

The rope falls slack and the body falls hard from the saddle, the gelding shied off to the side before bolting and leaving him there with three bodies, Lady nearby. John pushes the rifle aside and shoves himself up to his knees, breathing hard against the constriction of his neck, and he’s not quite sure when or where he is.

This the lynching for the livestock?

Don’t feel like it.

Throat burns like hellfire all the same, but there ain’t no one what saved him here. Ain’t no Dutch and no Hosea an—

There’re hoofbeats coming down the road and he thinks he should move, but his legs don’t respond when he tries, weak and worn in the aftermath. Three bodies around him ain’t looking good, but then he hears the gruff cursing of the rider and knows the voice.

It’s Arthur.

The surge of panic starts to fade.

“The hell happened here, Marston?” he demands as he drops down from the saddle, booted feet thudding heavily on the ground. Arthur looks at the mess he’s created and breathes in a slow, steadying breath of patience before he starts checking the bodies. Habit has him pull their valuables before he hauls each of them off the roadside and into a dried-out ditch, muttering about how inconvenient this all is, how it ain’t what he planned on doing today.

“Christ, yer lucky Dutch sent me down to check up on you,” he mutters, checking the road for witnesses but it’s clear, just the two of them and their horses. Then Arthur’s kneeling down, elbows on his knees as he’s looking at him, calling his name.

John blinks slowly, starts feeling the panic recede along with the memories, and stares dully at him.

“You alright?”

That cautious concern has him scowl instinctively and John rubs his hands over his cheeks, clearing the shameful stain of tears. Shakes his head anyways, then jerks back when Arthur reaches forward into his space; the fear surges again, blind and powerful.

“John,” and his tone is careful, serious. “You gonna let me take that rope off from ‘round your neck?”

There’s patience there he don’t know what to do with and he nods slowly, lets Arthur’s hands touch the rope with care he shows more towards his horse than John. Flinches as it shifts and loosens with a few grunted tugs. He tries to trust Arthur in this, but soon as the loop’s fallen loose from his neck, reflex has him shoving the man back with both hands, shakily tugging the rope over his head. John tosses it to the side like it’s an angry rattler, ready to strike, and stares with wild eyes at it.

Arthur scowls, landed on his ass in the dirt with a sharp glare shot his way. “Goddamn idiot,” he calls him for spurning the help he’d agreed to allow. That venom’s familiar and grounds him, keeps him in the present where he can be a fool and an idiot, but he can’t be afraid and so he starts to quash the tremors that make his hands unsteady, smother the lingering fears that are stoked each time he shifts and the burn of rope on his neck triggers a fresh wave of pain.

John ain’t wanting to talk to that, so he sticks to facts because they don’t make his heart run rampant nor his fear come out. “They marked me in Westward,” he says darkly. “Bastards were gonna take me in.”

Arthur hears him and stares a minute, then huffs a laugh like it ain’t no thing. “They ain’t gonna do nothing but dance with the devil tonight,” he points out. There’s comfort there, under the grit and the tease, and he gets to his feet, offers John a hand up. “Lucky bastard, Marston. Could’ve been more of them, or they could’ve jumped you in town.”

“Fucking shut up, Morgan.” John’s voice is harsher than usual, hurting, and he doesn’t feel lucky, but he takes the offer and staggers to his feet. Shakes off the assistance as soon as his balance’s set, and snaps for Lady’s attention. His mare meanders over and nudges his hand, waits patiently as he grabs his gun and his knife, then mounts up.

He rides back the longest route he can find, adds three hours to the trek, and Arthur paces him the whole length of it. Makes him drink down water when he starts to cough, tosses him a health tonic when his shoulders start to slump from the wear of his day. Takes everything out of him, that horrible memory, and he’s running on coal dust before long.

Thinks back to that last time he’d had to survive on his own.

The last real bad thing what happened to him before they saved him, gave him a home and a purpose.

They don’t talk much, with none of it about the bounty hunters, and he’s grateful. Arthur knows more than he lets on, he’s sure of it, and the man’s smarter than he lays claim to. Knows to leave John be, let him strip the nightmares from his brain at his own pace. Only ever interfered before when it looked like John’d hurt himself or others in reliving the dark times and ain’t never said a word of judgement when the storm breaks and John’s spent a night swallowing back choked sobs. Never said nothing them times, not even when he’d get up off his own bed, drop his blankets on John with a long-suffering sigh, and sit up next to him the rest of the night, so’s he knew he weren’t alone no more when the bad thoughts came and twisted up his sleep those first few years.

John doesn’t feel lucky, no, but he feels that appreciation, knowing that they’ve both got a rough week of nights ahead of him before the demons of his mind calm down. Knowing that Arthur’ll be there the whole time, missing the same restful sleep, because he knows John ain’t done well dealing with it alone and won’t have him suffer for it.

-

Camp’s quiet when they ride in and John unsaddles Lady, gives her a brushing and his frustration’s boiled over into anger that pushes away the shame and the fear, makes them go back to the dark where he wants them, and when Arthur asks what’s crawled up his ass, he snaps that it ain’t nothing, so step off Morgan. Appreciation or not, he’s in no mind to talk on being made and marked a criminal, nearly taken in as such, even though that’s truly what he is.

Talks with Dutch first and shows him the crumpled bounty poster; stands there, shocked, when he gets congratulated for making the law so flustered that they put money on his hide. That grates his frustration worse but there ain’t no way John’ll show that to Dutch after all the man’s done for him, so he just fumes under the praise and scowls when he leaves the tent, throws the bounty poster in the fire so it turns to ash as he walks to his and Arthur’s tent.

Their arrangements are back to normal, with Arthur in the cot and John on the bedroll again. His arm’s healed up enough that he ain’t needed bandaging on it since before town, but it’s sore tonight. Everything’s sore, including his mood. He’s got scrapes and scratches down the back of his head and neck, the backs of his arms, from being unseated and dragged in the rocky soil. Fresh red welts circling his throat are warm, reminding that they bled and blistered from the burn of rope, but he holds off touching any of it.

“Oughta clean that up,” Arthur says when he comes in.

“Shut up,” is the wittiest response that John can manage right then, throwing his hat down on a pile of his gear, dropping his gun belt and jacket, dusty and bloodied, atop it.

“Yer the one that’ll end up with ‘nother infection,” Arthur comments and he shrugs, like that ain’t his problem, even though it’d be everyone’s problem and that’s reason enough to fix himself up.

John knows it right and hates it, hates himself right then; drops down on his bedroll and pointedly does not ask Arthur for help as he cleans what he can reach without hurting his back worse. The burns around his neck take effort to treat, steeling himself to keep his hands from shaking, his throat from closing up with the recollection of suffocation and he wipes them clean with shaking hands, manages to rub a salve into it. Tries to wrap it with gauze and ends up short of breath, half choking from the aged panic that’ll always set in, always throw him back to being strung up as a kid, so he crumples up the wasted bandages and leaves it open to the air.

“S’better,” Arthur murmurs from the cot, sat there the whole time and writing something in his journal. Like he’d been ready to help, but smart not to jostle the viper’s nest that is John’s mind after a choking. Dutch and Hosea were the ones what stopped the lynching, but Arthur’s the one that’s dealt with the nightmares, the rabid lashing out anytime someone comes too close to his neck, presses too hard on his airways. Understands; knows he needs the space, even if John ain’t convinced of it.

“Shut up,” is all he manages, again, and his is voice thick, thoughts drained from running rampant for hours. He ties his hair back for the night, leaves next to nothing touching his throat so he don’t wake in that panic, and flops back on his bedroll to sleep.

-

Gunsmith’d done well.

Two small plaques with their names engraved on them.

John nails them to a small, shared cross the next morning and walks deep into the woods so he can beat it into the ground. Sits there a bit, stares at this evidence of his failure, and lets his eyes burn with the sting of loss. Gives them closure, a shared grave marker, and it’ll serve as much the same to him, he hopes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got caught in the crossfire that was "getting diagnosed with ADHD" and ended up taking longer than I'd hoped. It's also something of a pivotal chapter for John, even as everything continues to karmically fuck him. Poor thing?
> 
> ...who am I kidding. Writing John having a bad day is like the guilty pleasure of chocolate: There can be no regrets.
> 
> Thanks for your patience, y'all!
> 
> \- Kichi @[KichiWhy](https://twitter.com/KichiWhy) (Twitter)


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